Hell again, readers. Miss me? Don’t answer that, for you are reading this in the future, or perhaps I only wrote it in the past. Point is, I’ll likely be out dancing when you read this and will not hear your reply. I will assume, however, the answer was yes.

If you’ve followed my writing closely in the past, and you have for fear of punishment, then you are aware I have brushes with celebrities the same way hobos have brushes with sanity – those stark, unpredictable moments when sense almost creeps into their thought processes and then it’s back to masturbating in a dumpster. Yes, I have rubbed elbows with Ray Liotta, and rubbed other things with Peter Weller, as well as 80’s pop sensation Tiffany, and 90’s smut-based cartoon Li’l Kim. Well I’ve saved the best for last, this being last in chronological order compared to those others, though if you read this after my next one it will be second last, and this whole paragraph will end on this poorly thought out and awkwardly structured note.

As any of you know, I write daily correspondence to Nicolas Cage. Often just a simple letter asking how his day is going, sometimes a 200 page treatise on why I prefer a bidet to a traditional toilet. Here is a copy of my last letter sent just this morning before writing this;

We have so much fun together! Anyway, I guess we’re up to around 3000 letters sent after 8 plus years, so it’s no surprise that Mr. Cage finally got back to me!

It goes on for a few pages with examples and various laws being violated, but you get the idea. The important thing was, I had made an impression. Now that he knew I existed, it was time to initiate plan B! Meet Mr. Cage!

If you also stalk Nicolas Cage, then you know on Thursdays he likes to go to [REDACTED] to get a latte and sit on the patio for a few minutes while he waits for his assistant. On this particular Thursday I took it upon myself to detain his assistant with the help of my assistant, chloroform and sock filled with Canadian nickels. Either would work on their own but I like to be thorough.

With Mr. Cage’s assistant comfortably ensconced in the trunk of an abandoned El Camino with a note pinned to his chest blaming it all on a crippling meth addiction and a sexual obsession with an Olsen twin, it was time to head to [REDACTED] to make some magic happen.

As Mr. Cage and I had never formally met and he had only seen me scuttling in the darkness of his property in a ski mask he was not at all surprised when I walked out onto the patio. Now, of course, there was a moment of trepidation here. Do I invite myself to sit with him or simply sit at the next table and try to strike up polite conversation? Polite conversation seemed most reasonable.

I sat down with my scone (brought from home, I’m not paying the ludicrous prices at [REDACTED]) and tried to look casual. Mr. Cage was reading a paper with sunglasses on. Oh, you Hollywood stars! As I stared blankly at him I could see he had taken notice and was becoming visibly uncomfortable with my gaze. Time to act fast!

“Hey, bet you’ve never seen your assistant bound up in the trunk of an El Camino with a suicide note pinned to his chest!” I laughed. Mr. Cage lowered his paper.

“Excuse me?”

“I know, right?” I slid some of the photos of his assistant over.

“Oh my God, Terrence? Is he OK? What happened?”

“He’s fine. Sorta. As for what happened, it was fate, man! It’s an honor to finally meet you Mr. Cage. Can I call you Nick? Or Nic? You can’t audibly tell the difference but one of those had a K on it.”

“What? Who are you? What happened to Terrence?”

“Were the pictures not clear? He’s in a trunk. I’ve been calling it an El Camino this whole time but I’m beginning to recall that one of the defining characteristics of an El Camino is that it has a flat bed. Hell, we may never find the car he’s in now, if anyone cares to look, I mean.”

“What?” Mr. Cage was clearly getting into this, we had a great rapport going. His expression reminded me of that look he had on his face in Wicker Man when he couldn’t figure out how that thing got burned. Let’s look at a picture!

Aha ha ha! Lovely.

As Mr. Cage demanded again to know my identity, I reflected again that this was probably the best plan I’d ever hatched to force someone into being me friend. In the past I’d tried meeting people at bars and at work and there was that one time on Craigslist but of course that got out of hand fast. This seemed a wise course to take.

Like most people I became enamored with Nicolas Cage after no specific role, but after taking a step back and looking at his career as a whole and just thinking “holy shit.” And I mean that. Take a moment to yourself right now and consider the entirety of Nic Cage’s career. Ghost Rider. Face Off. Bangkok Dangerous. Drive Angry. Knowing. Season of the Witch. I’ll have to stop here because it can just keep going forever.

“I’m calling the police,” said Mr. Cage, drawing me from my reverie. He pulled out a cell phone and I felt perhaps that this meeting was going off the rails a bit. I had to think fast.

“No!” Think fast, man! You can do this. “It’s not a threat, it’s a promise.” Shit.

Mr. Cage ignored me from here on out as he conversed with the 911 operator. Odds are I had about 10 minutes before police arrived to fix this situation, get us on good footing and make it cool such that Nic could just tell the cops it was all a misunderstanding when they arrived. It was doable. I had once gotten 2 extra nuggets in a 10 piece from McDonalds, so I was a pretty lucky guy.

“I’m the guy who sends you letters every day!” I exclaimed. “Here’s a photo of my on the toilet!” Man, that was dead wrong. Why do I carry that picture around, anyway?

Anyway, long story short, Terrence was found. It was the trunk of an El Dorado. I was close! I had to wind sprint from the scene before the police arrived while Mr. Cage shouted empty threats of lawsuits and jail time after me. He’s such a card. So yeah, that was the time I met Nic Cage.